And Then I Heard Her Play
by fluteboy
Summary: A disillusioned musician discovers what marching band is all about. New version. Totally reworked. Finished! Please R&R! Rated only for language.
1. Well, She Dared Him to Lick the Floor

**Chapter One  
**Well, She Dared Him to Lick the Floor  
(They Don't Kiss Anymore)

_**B**_efore Chris knew that it was finally over, and before he had realized the futility of hope, he still had the ability to dream, and his sister, as she would be known, still had the nasty habit of hiding behind walls, never looking twice at him, and still managing to get him to do whatever she wanted. He can't say he liked her, but then again, he can't say she liked him, either, or even cared enough to pass some kind of judgment. But things have a surprising habit of changing when you least expect it, and endings have an annoying habit of inching closer unnoticed, like an abrupt shadow stalking a beginning; every time the damn thing gets you by surprise. And dreams, well, they don't mean anything in the end.

It was in the summer, that kinda summer when the most you have to look forward to is sleep, or maybe primetime TV if you're really lucky, when Chris awoke that one morning thirty minutes after his alarm, dug through his closet for a rusted piccolo, and opened a month-old music envelope. He swallowed his breakfast whole, flung clothes into his bags, and threw himself into his decrepit Toyota, all the while daydreaming the same damn dream he had the audacity to conceive two years ago.

He drove into school, over the bumps, past the gate and there they stood: six lumbering charter buses, their lights flickering through the morning fog. He parked on the scorched grass, staggered across the parking lot with his bags, and herded himself through the band, flinging the weight onto the belly of bus number five. But before he climbed the steps, an arm pulled him to the side.

"I need you to do me a favor." Rachel said. Her hand clung to his shirt, and her body pressed him onto the bus's headlights. "This is the first time she's been alone. Look after Cat. Look after all the flutes. You have to take my place." She loosened her grip, and smiled. "She trusts you more than me." She pecked him on the cheek. "That's for the oranges." She turned around and faded beyond the fog. The bus rang its horn, and Mr. Burns called for any stragglers.

Chris floated up the bus steps, down the walkway, and into his seat next to Cat. Before they took off, he glimpsed Rachel again, sitting on the curb. The fog was less dense, and he could see her crying. Before the bus turned a corner, he thought he saw her running - it must've been to the parking lot - but then she disappeared.

Cat refused to talk during the first hour of the trip. She spent her time gazing out the window, with nothing but endless highway rolling over her eyes. When she finally spoke, it was a whisper toward the glass.

"It's my fault she can't come, isn't it?" She tapped her fingers on the armrest. "I know you know. Tell me." A horn blared outside. She stared at the passing cars. Envious. Her feet curled up onto the seat, and she rubbed her leg. It was cold; the driver refused to turn off the AC. "You like her, don't you?" She sniffed and her fingers tapped faster. "Of course you do. Who doesn't?"

"She told me to look after you."

Cat tore her eyes away from the road, and whipped around. "She doesn'tcare about what happens to me." Her hand nearly slipped from the armrest, coated in sweat. "Don't you get it? It's justice. You're gone. Her precious flutes are gone. She has no one left. I've spent the last five years without anybody. She can handle onegoddamn week." She turned away, back to the window, and didn't say a word for another hour.

He leaned his head on the head rest. The first drops of rain laced the window, and its patter came through the bus's ceiling. Reality melted away, like fine chocolate on an eager tongue. He gulped it down, savoring the taste; it was better than holding on, letting it rot in his mouth. It wasn't the best taste, but it wasn't half-bad either, at least not that first bite, that first day so long ago. He could still remember; the whole goddamn movie played in his head. The rain's constant beating dribbled away, Cat's constant tapping slowed to a distant click, the passing headlights flickered off, chocolate dripped down his spine, and reality, well, to hell with reality.

* * *

_**T**_he stadium was filled, the torrent of noise rushed over his senses. He could hear them all, each sound, each word in every cheer. He could count each clap and recognize each of their rhythms. The stadium lights burned through his eyelids, along with the gaze of the audience. He could feel all of them staring. They were waiting. Each pupil burned with more curiosity than the next. They were waiting for him. Even with his eyes closed, he could feel all of them watching. Waiting. It was finally his turn, so long had he waited. It was here. Finally here.

And that was where he would always wake up. Falling awake. That is what it felt like. It was gorgeous up there in his dream world. He was on a pedestal. They could see him. For the first time, they actually cared to notice. And he had something to show them, something they would like to see, and something they'd like to hear. He would give it to them without a second's hesitation. All in exchange for their eyes, for their attention, for just one single smile. Not from all of them. Just one would do. Just one. But he would wake up. He would always have to wake up. And when he did, everything fell down to reality. And reality sucked.

The Florida sun was already burning, as it usually did, and the sky was bereft of a single merciful cloud. It was perfect whether for this sort of hell. There was no way of escaping the heat. It radiated from every crevice. It danced on the pavement below, watched from the sun above, and sunk its way into every bead of sweat. Somehow, they found it tolerable here. Chris never understood it when they tried to explain. Each bead was a sacrifice, a small hint of passion for the art. And each one fell, evaporating on the pavement. A curious fertilizer, he thought.

In the uniform room, they would complain of the smell. They couldn't help it. If the sun was their biggest enemy, the pungent uniforms were the second. He let them complain. After all, it was their style. But someone was always quick to ask for a description, and always found the same reply. It smelled like teamwork. He found it funny the first time. He still laughed the second and third time. But never once, did he give it any thought.

Now, he was trapped between them all, standing on this moist floor, intoxicated by this smell of teamwork. He knew most of them. He could recognize their faces and place them with an instrument. That's how he remembered them: the tall trumpet player or the girl percussionist. Beyond that, they were hallow cut out figures. They never talked to him, and he never talked to them. Yet, somehow, it wasn't bizarre. They were part of the marching band, a part of his team. He guessed that's all he needed to know.

He sat down on the hot pavement, as he was told, watching them form their imperfect circles. Old faces mixed in with new. Some confident, some nervous, others downright scared. He looked at them all. Just more cardboard faces. The fearful ones would leave. The confident ones would break. The nervous ones were perfect. Still, they were all here. Here and on time to endure the hell that was coming.

They gathered around their section leader, pacing in the center. Rachel was beautiful. That kind of supernatural beauty that must of shocked the nurse that pulled her from the womb. Every line culminated into a curve and every pigment soaked up the sun. She could leap a building or crumble at a touch, and anyone near her was intoxicated with the same sense of fragile strength. Her beauty was only enhanced by the fact that she had no idea how angelic she actually was.

But she had a romanticized view of her position. She would take it too seriously. They would say that leadership was beautiful, that the highest compliment was that sort of blind obedience. Chris had the faint hint that she believed it. She was quick to smile, and quick to correct. But for all her effort, she was still inefficient. She had an air of distance that few could penetrate. He could never see beyond the fog that surrounded her mind. But then again, he could never understand much of anyone, no matter how warm. But he tried. All last year he tried. Small attempts that amounted to nothing. She was enamored by her own superiority. All she saw was her position so all he saw was her in it.

"Welcome to the Jordan high school marching band." She smiled as if in front of a camera. It was no more real than that. "Welcome to the flute section. I'm Rachel, your section leader. I expect great things from this group, especially since were going to travel this year." She clasped her hands together. He could almost believe she was excited. "Let's start with introductions."

He was already accustomed to the normal round. All the new faces and all the names soon forgotten. The voices were a little shaky, and all were apprehensive. But it was all the same. They gave their names, followed by their interests. Always with a polite remark to band or flute. He could have sworn they had a script somewhere. When it was his turn, his voice was shaky, too.

"I'm Chris. A senior. First chair wind ensemble." He smiled. "And as far as I know, the only boy flute player on the face of this earth."

The first day was always the hardest on the freshmen. They were unaccustomed to the heat, and lacking the self-control it took to endure it. Few could stand still. Rachel went through them in her usual way, dispelling compliments and correcting mistakes. She didn't have to stand in all the positions or march every step. Her only job was to watch her section. He thought she took it for granted. She walked in a slow patient way down the line of flutes, checking each person. She was slower than a crawling bead of sweat, Chris thought. It was almost painful waiting for her, forced to stand perfectly still. But when she passed, she would always compliment him and creep to the next person.

After their morning marching rehearsal, everyone broke into sectionals. It was a long walk from the parking lot's pavement to the cool air-conditioned room, but patches of shade blessed them in between. He walked separated from the crowd, straying a little behind. Usually they wouldn't notice, and he convinced himself he preferred it that way. But this time, he wasn't the last one.

A freshman walked behind him, more separated from the group than even he dared to walk. She walked almost calculated, keeping a precise distance from everyone else. When he slowed down, so did she. When she forgot herself and stepped too far, she quickly stepped back. But he noticed that her distance was slowly beginning to shrink, and when the group came to a stop, she was beside him.

"Chris, right?" She had a high-pitched voice, even for a freshman. It felt new, preserved as if she rarely ever used it. She was smaller than most, too. She reminded him of a mouse. A little scared mouse. "First chair in wind ensemble, too. You must be pretty good."

"I like to think so." He tried to be friendly. It made her smile, and she fished through her mind for more words. It took a while. She seemed to have no more skill in conversation than he had.

"How long have you played?" she said.

"Since sixth grade."

"Me, too." The other flutes walked single file behind Rachel; Chris couldn't decide if it was at her command or just an assumption out of fear on their parts.

"What chair were you last year?" he said.

"First."

"So, you're pretty good."

"I like to think so. They're letting me audition for wind ensemble." There had not been a freshmen flute in wind ensemble for as long as he could remember. It was the top band in not only the school, but the entire county. There were only five seats for flutes. A freshman getting in was impressive. At least now, they had something to talk about.

When they reached the section room, Rachael filed everyone inside, putting an end to their conversation. She demanded silence, and only a few were brave enough to ignore her. He never got to know the freshman's name, he thought, as he entered the room. But that could easily be fixed. He took his instrument from his case a little quicker than he usually did. He thought himself strange at that moment. He felt something. He hadn't felt it in a long time. The conversation was over, and he couldn't help being slightly disappointed.

He stood next to the freshman girl all throughout sectionals, cramped in that tiny room. Rachel insisted that they make a circle around her, as they would on the field, and she made sure to keep them all on their feet. After a tiring morning of marching, few could stand not complaining, but Rachel chastised them in her usual way. The freshman did not seem to notice the exhaustion she must have been feeling. Having to stand meant nothing to her, he noticed. When he risked a glimpse at her face, she didn't seem tired at all. She looked nearly happy.

Throughout the sectional rehearsal, Rachel had them play through the songs they had gotten over the summer. She drilled the Jordan High School fight song, their Alma mater, and their small collection of stand tunes into their minds. To him, it was a cycle of nauseating boredom. He had played these songs for two years already. Even back then, he already hated them. He played them from memory now, without the slightest bit of effort. In the middle of the songs, his attention drifted from Rachel's hands, attempting to keep a steady sense of time. His mind floated. He felt numb, almost tired. The boredom was exhausting. It held on like sap to a tree, sucking him dry.

He saw the freshmen, all staring eagerly at their music, trying desperately to keep up with Rachel. It couldn't be this hard, he thought. He saw some of them struggling. Honestly struggling. They would play the same toxic list of songs until each was played to perfection. If not today, then tomorrow and the day after. He hadn't noticed that he was still playing, and now, the fact that he had stopped failed to register in his mind.

Then he saw her. The freshman next to him stood out from the others. She wasn't struggling. She stared strait ahead, into Rachel's hands, keeping the tempo. Rachel would unconsciously slow down and speed up. The freshman would follow without missing a beat. He concentrated on her sound. It was the same tiring song, but somehow it was different. It was almost enjoyable. He had never heard it played that way. Not even listening to himself. It was not in her tone or her technique. He couldn't put a word to it. It seemed as if she liked it. She found pleasure in playing. Even through the fog of noise that surrounded them, he could tell. Even through that simple song, he could feel it. She enjoyed playing the flute, he realized, and he enjoyed listening to her.

After sectionals, they all broke up and went to lunch. It was the hour he dreaded. He could stand the morning marching under the unforgiving sun. He would not complain about standing in sectionals. But lunch was different. He felt out of place. He had nothing to do, and he hated having to pretend he did. His table wasn't empty only because he bothered to sit there. He had no one to talk to, and he almost convinced himself it was better that way. If he thought sectionals were boring, than this was downright suffocating. The staff served in order of seniority, so it was a while before a small shadow found its way onto his table. "Is it okay to sit here?" He recognized the small voice. It was the freshman. He nodded and she sat down across from him.

They had the same average lunch he had grown to expect from his previous years: warm pizza, potato chips and a can of soda, the natural fuel, necessary for a hard day of marching. It wasn't anything inedible, but he expected that he had grown used to it over the years and her look of disgust confirmed it.

"It isn't all that bad," he said. She gave him curious look, as if she had just realized he was a lot braver than he looked, and poked her pizza over to him.

"You take the first bite," she said. "Make sure it's safe."

"I don't risk my life for strangers." He got his fork and poked it back over to her. She stared at it reluctantly before taking her plastic knife and dissecting it like a limp frog. He found if funny how she ate pizza with utensils, and even funnier when she realized it didn't taste half as bad as it looked.

"So, what do you think so far?" he said.

"I think it's pretty amazing, and it's still just the first day." She noticed the look of disbelief on his face. "I mean, we're surrounded by people who love music." She spoke with her mouth full. "Two hundred of them, all after the same goal."

"Wow, you're pretty obsessed for a freshman. You sound like our section leader."

"Why aren't you section leader?" She spoke with her mouth full. "You're first chair. So, you're the most qualified. You have the most advice to give."

"Leading is more than just playing the flute well," he explained. "Rachel's a better leader. She's the type of person who loves control. She's good at getting people's attention."

"And you aren't?"

"Nope." He tried to make it a joke, but she didn't laugh.

"You got my attention," she said. "Anyway, there's more to a leader than grabbing attention. Convince them you care. Convince them that you're obsessed and that it's a good thing. They'll listen to you. Set an example. Hard work is contagious. And when we're all equally obsessed, well, there's nothing to stop us."

"You got this all figured out, don't you." he said. "You should apply. We need people like you." He couldn't help feeling she was right for the part. She was just a freshman, but he could easily imagine her in the position. He remembered when he first saw her that morning. She seemed so different now. The more he looked at her, the more she seemed familiar, as if he had met her somewhere before.

"I will if you will."

"I'm a senior, remember?"

"You haven't heard?" He gave her a puzzled look. She only smiled. "Well, you'll see. If I lose, I rather lose to you than anyone else. Besides, if I win, I'll have something to brag about. So what do you say?" She held out her pinky.

He could almost laugh at the situation. He never intended to apply for section leader before. He was always content with first chair. This morning, he never thought that the girl would be bold enough to apply, either. But here they were, this girl who looked like a scared little mouse when he first saw her was asking him to do something he never dreamed of. It caught him by surprise, the way she asked it, and it caught him by surprise the way he responded. They sat at their table, unaware of anyone else, with pinkies interlocked, and promise sealed.


	2. What’s In a Name

**Chapter Two  
**What's In a Name  
(All I Need Is a Fake Phone Number)

"Chris!" Rachel called from across the lunchroom. A line of flutes, both freshmen and veterans, walking in single file, followed her. It was ridiculous, Chris thought, kindergarteners on Rachel's leash. She walked up and pounded her fist the table. "We'll do it here. Everybody sit down."

Rachel took the head of the table - all eyes went to her, like a queen taking her throne - and counted heads, making sure everyone was there. She took her time, expecting everyone to wait for her. And everyone did.

"Okay, as you all know, this year is a trip year" She looked at each pair of eyes, but never stayed long before moving to the next. "I don't need to tell you what an honor it is to be invited to the Fiesta Bowl, but since we're going to be competing against the best bands in America, we gotta make sure we're ready. It's gonna take a lot of hard work on all our parts, and a little sweat, pain, and growing up." She inserted one of her trademark dramatic pauses. "It's my duty to make sure the flutes are prepared. There's no room for mistakes this year. And the truth is one person by themselves can't keep an eye on all of you out on the field. So our director decided it would be best to assign another section leader to the flutes." She stopped now, looking into every eye, weighing each quality. She stretched out the game show suspense as long as she could, simply because she could.

"Remember the promise," the freshman said.

"There's nothing I can do. She decides for -"

"No! I'm tired of taking the back seat." She flashed that daring smile. "If you don't say something, I will."

Rachel's disapproving eyes drifted toward them and locked on. They both stared back, trying hard not to look away. The lunchroom seemed to quiet down. He could hear the sound of plastic as the freshman shifted in her seat. The splash of condensation on the lunch table seemed louder than it should be. Rachel, for once in her life, seemed out of place. The air of leadership wasn't there. Her eyes lost that sense of urgency. Whether she was looking at the freshman or him, he couldn't tell. He had met her three years ago, but now seemed the first time he actually saw her. Just a single thought crossed his mind: _her eyes are green, I had never noticed._

Rachel turned away and disrupted the silence. "I'll have my decision tomorrow." She stood from the table. "We still have marching ahead of us. Get a good lunch and remember to bring water with you when we go to the field." With that, everyone got up and spread into their different clusters. Once again, the table was empty.

"Congratulations." The freshman smiled at him.

"For what?"

"You might get section leader, but I'll get first chair."

"I haven't gotten anything yet, and neither have you."

"Is that a challenge?" she mocked. Auditions for chair placement were next week, and they were quickly approaching. But his mind was preoccupied with something else. And the freshman noticed.

"Are you okay? Don't let delusions of grandeur sink into your head. The last thing I want is another Rachel."

"She's not so bad." He surprised himself. He thought he would never find himself defending her. _She has pretty eyes._ He couldn't suppress the thought.

They talked until the end of lunch and on the way to the field. Rachel and her news quickly left his mind. The sun was beginning to set. The path in front of them was empty. Most of the veterans drove to the field. The remaining freshmen walked the distance, but no one was coming.

"Looks like we left a little too early." he said.

"It's okay." She carried her flute and water bottle in one hand. He carried his piccolo in his pocket. They set their instruments down on the sidelines, facing the empty field, and sat on the sun-baked grass. They talked about the rehearsal, how this would be the first time the freshmen saw drill, the first time to march and play all at once. He could tell she was excited.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" The question surprised him, but he smiled.

"I had one in middle school. You?"

"I'm not really into girls." She smiled wryly. "But as for guys, nope, I've never had a boyfriend." They both lay down on the grass, stretching out their backs after the long walk. As they talked, people started to appear on the field and cars drove up the road. He finally remembered to ask an overdue question.

"Wanna know something funny?"

"Of course."

"I don't know your name."

"It's Cat."

"Seriously?" He stifled a laugh.

"That's my new name. I just made it up. What, you don't like it?"

He gave her a puzzled expression. "You can't just make up a name. What's your real one?"

"Of course I can make it up. My real name doesn't matter." She smiled and propped herself up on her elbow. "You can call me Cat. I don't want my real name." She got up, shaking the dirt off her hands. "I'm starting over." She offered her hand and pulled him up. They joined the gathering crowd on the field, following the sound of Rachel's voice like dogs on a leash.


	3. Sure, I Can Stand the Rain

**Chapter Three  
**Sure, I Can Stand the Rain  
(The Witch without an Umbrella)

_**L**_ighting creased the sky, as the bus pulled over onto the emergency lane. The rain pelted the windows; there was no way in hell the driver could see an inch past the windshield. Cat stared at the cars, they were nothing but headlights now, nursing the drowning highway. The rain scared her reflection; Chris couldn't tell if she was crying. Her fingers were still tapping the armrest.

It was different that day, that kinda day when the wind combs your hair better than you ever could, a quiet moment seemed so alive, and every second dissected in front of your eyes. She looked so different back then, that day Rachel threw that damned tuner. He remembered seeing her face, searching for a joke, her eyes twisted in that sick longing. Well, they twisted in a different sickness now, but irony is for suckers.

After a couple of minutes the rain let up, and the bus pulled onto the highway. Cat didn't move. Chris unzipped his backpack and pulled out a book, fighting back sleep. Before long, his name squeezed itself between the lines, and his eyelids fell as the curtain rose. Once again, that goddamn chocolate tickled his spine and...

* * *

"Hey you!" Rachel threw the tuner. Chris stepped awkwardly to catch it. "Howdy, partner." She slipped in a crooked smile. "Welcome to my hell. I'll break you in easy." Her voice was dripping with sarcasm. "Tomorrow morning, they're all yours. Think of it as your initiation test." She winked and walked off, and just like that, he became the flute section leader.

The next morning Rachel was late. He stood in the center of the flute circle, pacing around and looking at all the expecting faces. He was supposed to know what to do. But the truth was he had no idea. He remembered that Rachel had always taken roll first thing in the morning. He started from there. He went down the list of names. A few freshmen corrected him on the pronunciation, something they'd never dare do with Rachel. They giggled and gossiped throughout the entire roll call, until he turned on one of them. He gave her twenty push-ups. Surprisingly she did them. All twenty of them as the others looked on. The giggling instantly stopped.

He had them form a line facing him. He put them all at attention and told them it was a test of focus. No one was to move muscle. "Even if the sweat drips into you eyes, don't move." he said. "Don't laugh. Don't smile. Don't fidget. Just focus. Focus on our goal." He told them the first one to move would be given twenty push-ups. The first one to laugh would be given fifty.

He walked along the line and called for the best comedian. Cat raised her hand, and he smiled despite himself. He motioned her to step forward, and took her place in line. He went to attention. "Do your best," he said and she understood immediately. She paced up and down the line, wracking her brain for the perfect joke. When she was ready, she unleashed her barrage.

"My friend sent me a postcard with a picture of the earth taken from outer space. On the back it said, wish you were here." Cat ran down the line. "Is it true that the more you cry, the less you have to pee?" She parked directly in front of him. He stared straight ahead, mouth twitching. "How do you get a one-armed blonde out of a tree?" She leaned in and whispered in his ear. "Wave, of course."

By the time Rachel finally arrived, he was only on his second push up.

After rehearsal, the copy machine vomited into Rachel's hands. She lifted the papers like porcelain plates, placing each in its delicate pile. The walls of the music library pressed against Chris's mind, already exhausted; Rachel's presence pressed against his mind. The copier continued its idle drone, the only sound in the room. The air swirled a feather-light touch of cheap perfume.

The sound of his stapler went unnoticed, as he assembled next week's drill. It was a relief to sit down, even on this hard plastic chair; it had been a long day for his feet. He picked apart Rachel's precious piles, page by page, searching for the right copy. The entire section needed the drill tomorrow; their work had just begun. He rubbed his eyes. After a day of marching, it was his head that was the most tired, and while his feet took a break, his brain was still running a marathon.

"You tired?" Rachel let the machine skid to a halt and turned around. "Let's take a break." She laid the last copies on the table, and made for the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Getting a drink," she called over her shoulder. "Hurry up." He accepted her invitation, or rather, obeyed her command and followed her out through the door. The band room was empty. A chorus of crickets penetrated the walls. Their footsteps echoed in the halls. He had no idea how late it was, but everybody had already left. They heard the hum of the vending machine from miles away.

"Where is everyone?" he said.

"Home." Her voice rang down the hall. "The other section leaders did their copies ahead of time. In other words, I procrastinate, and you're stuck with me." She let loose a quirked grin. "Don't worry, I don't have rabies, and I won't make a pass at you."

"You think I'm afraid of you?" His laugh was nervous more than anything else.

"Afraid? I think you're terrified. Especially now that I got you all for myself." She smiled over her shoulder. "Watch what you say, or you'll find yourself locked in the uniform room, or maybe crammed inside a hat box, or -"

"Holding a match in the color guard room amid a thousand containers of flammable hair spray?"

She tossed her head back; her mouth erupted like a volcano. His mind relaxed and he eased the grip on his tongue. Her beauty made her more than human, and her laughter made her more beautiful. He settled into an awkward comfort. "You catch on quick." She braced herself on the walls, clutching her stomach. "So, what's first chair have to say 'bout my piccolo playing?"

"Well, you need a metronome to keep time," he said. She frowned, and threw him an awkward pout. It only encouraged him. "Then again, Dr. Beat could probably play it more musically anyway." He laughed despite himself. A scoff escaped her mouth, and a hand left her pocket. She shoved him into the wall. His feet tangled. She laughed hysterically, as he rolled onto the floor.

"Do I even need an insult now?" She smiled over him. She offered her hand. He had learned the hard way, she was a lot stronger than she looked. She jerked him to his feet. And he learned the easy way, her hands were a lot softer than he had imagined. "You okay? Sorry about that. Must've caught you by surprise. I thought men were supposed to keep their guard up. At least be prepared if you plan to insult me. How are you supposed to protect me if a stranger breaks in?"

"The stranger's the one who would need protection." Before he could react, he was on the floor again. They walked back to the room coated in laughter.

"You did a good job today." The moan of the copier seemed remarkably quiet. "Better than I expected actually. When I saw you on the ground doing push-ups, I thought we were in trouble, but I was wrong. They listen to you."

"I'd love to know why."

"Well, the push-ups helped I think," she said. "And you are first chair after all. So, technically, you're supposed to be better than all of us. God, I'm actually being humble. Isn't this a Kodak moment?" She shot him a smile over her shoulder, as she fiddled with the copier.

"I just hope we'll be ready for the trip." he said. "They have a lot to learn."

"Yeah…" Rachel's voice sank down to a whisper. It was nothing more than a barely perceivable acknowledgement. When he risked a look, he noticed her hands, frozen at her sides. For the second time today, she seemed completely out of place. She stood there, facing away, staring at the emerging copies. The machine eventually spat them on the floor, but she didn't notice.

"What's wrong?"

"You think you can finish up here?" She grabbed her belongings and made for the door.

"Sure." He stood up with her. "Hey, you okay?"

"I'm fine." She paused in the doorframe. She turned, and her eyes never looked more awkward or gorgeous. "About the trip…" She wavered. He waited for her to continue, but all she did was pull her eyes back into that calculated actress smile.

"What about it?"

"Nothing. I have to go." She turned away. The room was empty, and her goodbye mingled with the echo of rushed footsteps.

It was another hour before he finished and went outside. The air was unusually cool for a Floridian night, and gusts of wind pierced his clothes. Static clouds hung over the bus loop, holding nothing but an unchanging purple. It was an awkward feeling, like nature frozen and preserved in a ziplock bag.

He made his way toward a figure sleeping on a bench, and took a seat. The moon strained through a filter of clouds, and the world fell into a purple haze. He nudged the girl awake and a little cat's yawn escaped from her mouth. A purple flower bloomed before him.

"Hey." Cat's eyes flickered half-awake.

"What're you doing here? It's nearly eleven o'clock," he said.

"My dad's coming to pick me up."

"We finished three hours ago. You've been waiting all this time?" She just nodded with a tired smile. "Is he usually this late?"

"I had another ride, but it already left." she said. "So I called him, and he should be here soon."

"You want me to wait 'til he gets here?"

"It's okay. I'll be fine."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." She saw the look of concern on his face, as he got up to leave. "Don't worry. He'll be here any minute." He nodded and reluctantly said goodbye. As he crossed the street, the night suddenly became cooler and the breeze began to pick up. When he looked back, Cat was curled up, lying still and fast asleep.


	4. When Blood Smells Like Ketchup

**Chapter Four  
**When Blood Smells Like Ketchup  
(Cats Don't Always Land on Their Feet)

"You're preoccupied." Cat noticed. "I can tell." They both sat together at that same lonely table. The lunchroom seemed to spin around them.

"Just thinking." Chris said.

"About what?"

"Rachel." He answered and she looked away. "I mean, she was acting strange yesterday. Have you noticed anything?"

She didn't answer the question. The gears inside her mind were working, trying to put the words together, carving a mask to hide the truth. She knew what she wanted to say, and what she didn't want to say, but somehow, at that moment, both seemed the same. She replied with the only thing she could think of. "You want to go for a walk?"

The air outside was cooler than usual, cooler than a few minutes ago. It seemed to him that only when they were marching on the black pavement does the sun decide to watch. Otherwise, it's as cool as spring morning. The school was abandoned; the entire marching band was busy inhaling their lunches. His ears took a welcomed break from the blaring trumpets and screeching piccolos and listened to the melody of birds and the harmony of the trees. "I should go on walks more often," he said, smiling.

"Shhhh…" She put a finger across her lips, and led him to the courtyard, to the base of a tree and there, entwined in its roots, they took their seats. "Just listen."

He fell into a dream, counted every flutter of wings, dissected each pigment of sunlight, heard each leaf's individual voice, absorbed, tasted, and grabbed all he could. When Cat finally spoke, it wasn't an interruption. It was only an added instrument in nature's symphony.

"Tell me about your home," she said. He smiled.

"It was a small house. Not even really well kept either. We tried. My parents tried; I helped them I mean. But the grass was always burnt, and the trees overgrown. But it was home."

"Backyard?"

"We had a huge back yard. I remember chasing my dog when I was younger. I was naive enough to think that I could beat her in races. My mother would count us off. To the tree and back. It was a long run. And my dog turned the fastest corners ever seen for a fat little Dalmatian."

She laughed. "How was your room?"

"I had a little room. The dungeon I called it. The window never let in a lot of light. The floor was cold. I wanted carpet. I remember coming home from my elementary school. Shoes thick with sand from the playground. I would spill the sand on my floor. A course little slide. Almost unbearable to walk on."

He turned to face her. She lay completely still, a dead body, molded by the roots, leaves in her hair, dirt on her hands, and a sad, envious smile brushing her lips. "Tell me about your home." he said. It was only a slight pause before she answered.

"I spent most of my time in our small living room. We had a collection of pillows my mother kept along the walls. I would bring them together. Form my own stories. Make my own action scenes. I would always come up with the most spectacular battles. I remember getting carpet burns from spinning around so much. Punching every pillow. Kicking every one, too. I would imagine I was a power ranger. I would spin away while the TV was on or while my parents were trying to watch the news. It was a funny sight, pillows crossing in front of the screen."

She leaned back on the roots, stared upwards through the canopy, and let her eyes trace the sky. There was that sad smile again. She spoke as if recalling a lost paradise, and smiled as if she knew it she could never find it again. "My mother died five years ago," she said. "Ever since then, everything's changed. My father closed himself up. The only people he talks to now is my sister, and me, but every time it's like he's trying to pull us down with him. My sister fights it, though. All she does is fight him, and I hate her for it. She's the only one that didn't change. She just kept going on and left us behind." Her eyes narrowed and her fingers sunk into the dirt. "Rachel's such a bastard. She was supposed to take me home yesterday. But she left. She left her own freaking sister."

She eased her hands on the ground, squeezed her eyes shut, and let out a quick breath. Nature's symphony abruptly stopped. She opened her eyes, and locked them on the lunchroom, toward Rachel. "I hate her. She's the smart, attractive one. She's the popular section leader. She's the reason I practice the flute." She tore her eyes away, and flashed him a pitiful glance. "It's all I have. I can still beat her in one thing." She tried to hide a crooked smile, but she was a bad actor, and the sunlight filled out every curve of her face. "All I have is a flute. She left me with nothing but a damn flute." She pulled a handful of grass and threw it into the wind.


	5. A Piccolo Duet in the Third Octave

**Chapter Five  
**A Piccolo Duet in the Third Octave  
(The Tuner's Out of Batteries)

_**T**_he buses floated away like lumbering boats on the foggy sea, until only the lights could penetrate the morning's darkness. Rachel ran to the parking lot, fumbled the keys, unlocked her dad's pick-up, and pulled down the rear view mirror. _I'm a fucking wreck_. The buses turned a corner and the lights disappeared, like a blanket covering a dream. She turned the ignition, and pulled out after them, leaping the speed bump and erupting out of the front gate.

She followed for as long as she could, fumbling the steering wheel, and trying to wipe the damn tears from her eyes. She saw the lights calling from a distance, and her foot sank on the accelerator. They crossed an intersection, as the traffic light turned yellow. She searched for the brake, and came to a stop, watching as the buses strolled away.

She turned around, through the gate, over the speed bump, skidded into the bus loop, leaped outta the truck, and wrestled with the school door, until it threw her on the floor. She took off her shoe, dropped her purse, hesitated, and aimed for the window. It took three throws before the shoe sailed into the building. She softened the edges with the other shoe, climbed through, ran to the band room, emptied her locker, grabbed her uniform, piled everything onto the truck's backseat, and pulled onto the highway.

It was only when she strolled passed a cop car, with a stolen pick up, a learner's permit, and shattered glass decorating her shoe, did she realize she was still crying. The road ahead melted with the horizon, rain coated the windshield, and tears blurred her vision. She pulled onto the emergency lane, dug for her piccolo, and drew it to her lips. She thought it faintly smelled of chocolate.

* * *

_**R**_achel looked across the kitchen, over the plain table, past yesterday's dirty dishes, and through the window. The Fiesta Bowl was out there somewhere, but the rain clouded her view. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Her father shifted on the sofa, and rubbed his hands on his jeans. He couldn't look up anymore. "Honey, I'm sorry. I just…I can't. It's a fact of life."

"That's not what I'm talking about." She jerked her eyes away from the window. "What the hell am I supposed to do? You can't put this on me. You can't ask me to do this."

"Honey -"

"Choose? How can I choose? This is the opportunity of the lifetime. It's my _last_ opportunity. I'm a senior, dad." Her fingers were twitching. "Don't you understand? It ends. Band ends."

"We're unable, honey. I just can't provide -"

She slammed her hand on the counter. She couldn't stop trembling. "Talk to the director. Let's figure something out. We can get help. Why are you so damn proud?"

"I can support my own family, Rachel." He raised his voice. "Damn it, I'm not going to take charity. You can get past this. It's an unnecessary expense. I thought I was being nice by letting one of you go, but you -"

"Being nice? You're being nice?" Her eyes glittered. "You're making me choose. You can't put that on my shoulders. You're just trying to escape your goddamn conscience. It's your decision. Take the guilt and, damn it, grow up."

"I've heard enough of this."

"No. You have no idea how much this means to me. Just because -"

"Does it mean more than food on our table?" He stood up from the sofa. "Does it mean more than hot water and electricity? Does it, Rachel? Do you really think that little of us? Is band more important than your family?"

She stormed off to her room. Her father followed. "You need to find your priorities," he continued. "Don't you walk away from me."

She reached her room and turned in the doorway, an ocean on her cheeks. "Is pride more important than your family?" she said. "Dad, you're the one who needs to find your priorities." She slammed the door.

* * *

_**T**_he stapler fell on the desk, bringing Rachel back to the copy room. She looked at the drill in her hand, and remembered her purpose. "You okay?" someone said. She looked past the piles, over to the copy machine. Chris looked concerned.

"Yeah, it just slipped."

"You're crying." He walked over and pulled up a chair. "What's wrong?"

"It's nothing. Just forget about it." The copier spit the papers onto the floor. They fluttered to a stop. She fingered her shirt and wiped her tears.

"Are you sure?" he said. "You need anything?"

"I'm fine."

"How about a drink? I think it's time for a break."

The hallway seemed emptier than ever. Rachel walked slower and spoke softer than last time, but she couldn't stand still; her fingers constantly kneaded her shirt. The journey to the vending machine seemed to take twice as long. Rachel wiped at her cheek again.

"Hypothetical situation." she said. "If you had to choose between me and Cat, which one would you pick?" Even her footsteps seemed softer.

"What do you mean?"

"Which one would you want to be on the trip? Which one deserves it more?" She pawed at her cheeks. Her shirt was too wet to be of any use. "How the hell can someone decide something like that? I want to go. I want to go so much. But I can't. I can't live with the guilt."

"What guilt?"

She stopped and leaned against the wall. Her fingers rapped on the cold plaster. "The guilt of taking the trip away from Cat."

He leaned beside her. "What's going on?"

She sank to the floor. "We don't have money. Both of us can't go. Only one can. Only one…" She let her hands fall onto her knees. "And I have to decide."

"But there's help." he said. His eyes were itching. "There's plenty of support from the band parents. We can work this thing out. I'm sure both of you can make it."

"No, we can't. My father doesn't let us look for help. He doesn't want charity. He doesn't -"

"It's not charity. Rachel, we need you there. You're the section leader. I can't do this by myself. I need you there." He shifted, wiped his hands on the cold floor. Sweat mingled with dirt. "Come on, we'll talk to the director. Even if your father doesn't understand, we'll do it without him. Screw him. We'll get the money ourselves. We'll ask for help." He looked at her. She bent down her head, hiding her expression. She was glowing. "We can figure this out." he assured her. "Trust me."

She lifted her head. Beneath the tears was a small smile. "You're so naïve."

"But it's a plan. Agreed?"

Her head came to rest on his shoulder. Her last tears fell onto his shirt. "Agreed." She closed her eyes. "Thanks"

The next morning they went to the director's office together and explained the situation. They took their time, and Mr. Burns asked his questions. They both felt relieved when Mr. Burns said he would call and do his best to convince Rachel's father. The band parents had saved enough money to help Rachel and she could fundraise whatever remained. All that was left was her father's permission.

Mr. Burns called every week. After sectionals, both Chris and Rachel would stop by his office to hear the news. They would walk down the hall; see him through his window, talking actively on the telephone. Before they even had a chance to knock on the door, they received the news. It was always a simple headshake and a sympathetic smile. It was the same every week.

Rachel didn't seem to notice. She fundraised her share of the trip. She sold oranges. Chris had to help her carry them home. They had a wagon Rachel claimed was hers, bright red, big enough to sit two. They stuffed it to the brim with oranges, rushed home, and came back to fill another load. There was a slope between both of their houses. They would always lose oranges. One time the wagon tipped completely over, scattering oranges across the road. They spent a good thirty minutes cleaning up, chasing the run always down the slope, and apologizing to the cars tip toeing their way through the mess. It was nighttime by the time every orange was at Rachel's house, and both were exhausted. But they still had Chris' oranges to take home, too.

On their fourth trip from the school, the wagon already creaked under the weight, even though they had fewer oranges than before. They carried the last load, now it was only the leftovers. When they reached the slope, Rachel stopped at the top, and told him to hold the cart as she hopped in. She shifted the oranges around, making space for a rear passenger. She gave him a daring look.

"Oh no." He shook his head. "You're gonna get us killed."

"I'm gonna get us home before morning." She shook the wagon and it groaned, begging for mercy. "Don't worry, I'll protect you." She gave him a teasing smile.

He jumped in. The wagon screamed for help as it lurched over the crest of the slope. It started to pick up speed. Before they knew it, they were both screaming. Rachel held on to the wagon's tongue, trying to make some kind of make shift steering wheel. When she said she was going to test it out, he griped the edges of the wagon as best he could. Her first turn was too sharp; he swore the cart would tip over. He felt the wheels lift off the ground. They zigzagged on the road. Oranges flipped over the brim before she could straighten the wagon out again.

"Oops." she called over her shoulder. "I'm getting the hang of this thing now."

"God, I hope you don't have a driver's license." He cut off his laughter when remembered a small feature that decorated the road to his house. "Rachel, there's a speed bump!"

"You don't have to yell."

"Rachel, I'm telling you, hit the brakes -" The cart sped along, the world a blur around them.

"What brakes, Chris?" She yelled and let out a maniacal laugh. "What bra -" The bump shot them both into the air. He could see Rachel rising. The cart catapulted oranges above her. He flew completely over the bump, like a gymnast over a hurdle, through a sea of oranges, and landed hard on the concrete. Before he could react, Rachel's elbow fell on his stomach and her back pressed his hand to the pavement. The wagon had stopped. Only a splintered wheel made it over the speed bump. He couldn't help laughing as he watched it roll drunkenly away.

They carried the oranges back to the house on the limping wagon. They had lost a couple in the dark, along with the stamina to look for them. Rachel did look for the missing wheel though, but she couldn't find it. She stared sympathetically at the wagon in tow. "We broke her wagon," she said. "Cat's gonna be pissed."

The next day Chris entered Mr. Burns' office, asked him to put all the money from his oranges into Rachel's account, and to keep it a secret. Mr. Burns gave an understanding smile and agreed. The dead line for payment was coming up fast, but Rachel didn't seem worried. She kept up with her fundraising. Now, it was flags. She went door to door like a persistent salesman. But it was mostly unsuccessful. Oranges were a universal necessity. Flags on the other hand, weren't.

At lunch, Rachel managed to find Chris' table. When she propped her tray down, Cat gave an audible sniff. "So good of you to lower yourself and eat with us, your highness." she said. Rachel made no replay. She simply kept eating her food. Cat continued. "Where are your loyal subjects? Have you lost your leash?"

"Cat -" Chris eyed her. He had never seen her like this.

"Oh look." She eyed him back. "Lover boy comes to the rescue. Shall I repair my wagon so you two can elope and ride off into the sunset?" Rachel didn't move. Chris looked away. "You should know, Chris, she fills the holes in her life with her leadership." She twisted the last word like it was dirt in her mouth. "When she gets lonely, all she has to do is boss people around. And the worst of it is that people bend over backwards at her every breath."

Rachel looked up. Her eyes were shivering. "At least I don't fill the fills the holes by keeping others away," she said. Cat finally got a reaction and now she regretted it. She shrunk in her seat her shoulders dropping under the weight. Only the truth was that heavy.

"The holes you tore open, Rachel." She got up to leave, looking down at the table. She wanted to hide her face. She restrained from wiping her eyes. "The holes that only a sister can fill. But you can't fill them can you?" She left to lick her wounds.

The day before the payment deadline Chris and Rachel walked down the hall after sectionals. They walked towards Mr. Burns' office. Both were nervous. Rachel was terrified. When they looked through their usual spot at the office window, Mr. Burns was still on the telephone, and he was yelling at the receiver. They decided to take their usual walk to the vending machine.

"She has no idea, does she?" Chris said. "Cat, I mean."

"That's not her name. You know right?"

"Then what is it?" Rachel only smiled at the question

"Her name is whatever she wants it to be. If she wants to get away from me so bad, I shouldn't stop her. She doesn't even want to be associated with me. I don't blame her." Chris opened his mouth to speak, but she put a finger over his lips. "I don't want you to comfort me. You see, I'm a bad sister," she said. "And I'm paying my dues."

They walked back to the office. Mr. Burns was off the phone. A sour look was on his face. When he saw them at his window, he waved them in. They sat in his office like parents in a waiting room, searching the doctor's face for any sign of good news. Mr. Burns let out a sigh and ran his hands threw his hair. He didn't say a word. He just shook his head.

The next day the payment was due. Rachel showed up with a single envelope and walked into Mr. Burns' office. Chris caught a glimpse of the name on its face. It wasn't one he recognized. When she came out of the office, he rushed to ask her. All she said was "I'm paying my dues."


	6. She Told Me She Loved Romantic Comedies

**Chapter Six  
**She Told Me She Loved Romantic Comedies  
(The Comedy, the Romance and Especially the Sick Feeling Afterwards)

_**C**_hris awoke with Cat's head on his shoulder. The rain outside poured, and an occasional flash penetrated the windows. Cat's hand had fallen off the armrest, and lay twitching by her side. "I know why you don't like me." Her hand tightened into a trembling mess. "I'm not half the person Rachel is. I'm the one who keeps hurting her. I'm the one who cheats, the one who runs away, the one in the corner, the one who always has nothing to say." Passing headlights streaked across her face. He stared like a priest trapped in a confessional. "She forgave me. I could never forgive myself. But Rachel," She moved to the window, and her eyes went back to tracing cars. "She was the first one there, the first one to say it wasn't my fault. She said it was okay. She said she would take care of me. But I can't. I won't let her. She can't forgive me. Not for that." Her reflection stared into his eyes. "She has to hate me. I have to make her. I have to make everybody hate me." She plowed ahead like a tumbling train, never taking a breath. "You have no idea what I did. You have no idea how despicable I really am. I sent her away. I sent mother away."

"Cat, stop this -"

"She was over the stove, but I didn't see her. I swear I didn't see her. I pushed Rachel in the wagon, but she couldn't steer it. It went into the kitchen, and slammed into the stove."

"Cat -"

"We had cabinets over the stove, where we kept our china. They were loose. When the wagon hit, they fell. My mother…" Cat pressed her head onto the glass. "She was caught between them." She took quick breaths, and turned back toward him. "You understand now? I have to make her hate me. I have to." He put a finger across her lips. His thumb brushed her tears. "Why don't you hate me?" she said. "You're supposed to hate me."

"I told her I'd take care of you." The trembling in her hand died away. "It's gonna be all right." The words echoed in his brain. He squeezed her hand. It wasn't the first time he said it. He promised Rachel the same damn thing, but nothing was all right. Everything was horribly wrong. He reached for his bag, unzipped it and pulled out his cell phone.

"What are you doing?" she said.

"I'm setting things right. I'm fulfilling a broken promise."

* * *

_**R**_achel pulled her father's truck to a red light and picked up the phone ringing in her purse. After she left the school that morning, she had driven around aimlessly. She didn't want to go home. She was in bad condition to drive. Tears blurred her vision, and father wasn't in the passenger seat. She looked around worriedly for cops as she put the phone to her ear.

"Hello."

"Rachel, it's Chris. Listen, We're gonna find a way to get you here."

She parked her car as fast as she could, and turned off the radio. The prospect of getting to Arizona seemed ridiculous, but she was willing to hear anything.

"How comfortable are you with driving?" he said. "I have a plan." She smiled at herself through the rear view mirror.

They planed for over a half an hour, coming up with all the worst-case scenarios, and what to do if they happened. What worried her was that they came up with nothing when it came to the actual police. She only had a learner's permit after all, and the seat next to her was empty.

"Then how did you get to school this morning?"

"Well, when my father left with Cat, I kinda stole the pick up."

"Then you're more suited for this than I thought."

"What do you have in mind?"

"You stole it didn't you? Why return it so soon?"

The plan was to follow the bus, even though she wasn't in her own car, and she didn't have a proper license. The airport was three hours away. Three hours of paranoid driving. She told him that was taking it too far. Her phone started complaining; she had forgotten to charge it. She still needed to call dad; he deserved to know who stole his truck. But she kept talking. By the end of the call, Chris' voice seemed miles away.

"The buses are scheduled to stop at Oak's mall for breakfast and gas. We're gonna arrive there in a couple of minutes."

"How the hell am I supposed to get there?" she said, "You guys have an hour head start. By the time I get there, you guys will be long gone. And what good will it do? They won't let me on the bus."

"Do you trust me?"

"Yeah."

"Then meet us at the mall," he said. "We'll be waiting." He hung up the phone.

She started her engine. After half an hour of planning, she was still in the dark. She called her father, told him where she was, and hung up the phone before he had a chance to yell. The only thing she knew was all the trouble she could get into, _would_ get into. Still she couldn't help laughing. It was the fact that she pulled out of the parking lot, turned her radio up, and took the first turn our into the highway. She had never driven on it before and she felt like a criminal, but she laughed at her excitement.

It was a two-hour drive to the mall. The sun had just gone up in the last hour or so. She felt liberated without her father there. The radio was a little louder than usual. And her speedometer read a little higher, too. She felt comfort in the fact that maybe, just maybe, Chris was crazy enough to get her to the Fiesta Bowl. At any rate, she thought, he was a lot crazier than she had ever suspected.

On the road, she looked out for the police. She couldn't help being paranoid. She passed a police car twice and held her breath both times. She told herself to act normal, that they would never know if she just kept her cool. When one began to flash their lights, she nearly jumped out of her seat in a panic. She managed to gather herself and pull to the side of the road, still sweating from the scare. She quickly grew allergic to any siren and the color blue she swore was no longer her favorite color.

She found her father's shades in the glove compartment and put them on slowly, savoring the moment. She felt like a chick in a James Bond movie. So much so, that she couldn't help whispering her name. Dramatically, of course. "Askins." she said. "Rachel Askins." She decided that if Chris was crazy, she had no right to judge.

Thoughts of the Fiesta Bowl raced through her mind. It was that kind of ecstatic joy from the discovery that not all the doors are locked. There was still a little doggie door flapping in the breeze. She couldn't wait to squeeze herself in. She knew that the door might be locked when she got there. The plan might turn out for the worse, or course. But she trusted Chris. He was naïve, sure, but naivety was only a stone's throw away from genius.

She remembered that first trip her freshman year. They had won the competition. The bands marched by them one by one in salute. All fourteen of the finalist. She stood there mesmerized, staring at the competitors. The competitors she had defeated. All were fantastic bands. She couldn't believe it. She _still_ couldn't. She needed to feel it again. Only then, she thought, would she really understand.

She wanted to see her flutes again, too. She wanted to show them what it's like to experience that rush. It's what made her into what she was. It's what made her fall truly in love with band. It was in that moment, that she decided her future. She wanted to become a band director, she said. And she was going to Arizona to affirm it.

* * *

_**T**_he six charter buses pulled into the Oak's mall and a landslide of band kids filled the food court. Chris sat with Cat in the middle of the commotion. He watched as she played with her noodles. The line at the Chinese joint was the longest by far.

"You feeling better?" he said. She smiled back at him. She looked far better than she did on the bus ride. She had slept on his shoulder the rest of the way and she had awakened a different person. When he nudged her awake, her face went red with realization. He found it funny the way she slept with her mouth open. He didn't mind the drool on his shirt.

"I understand." she said. "I finally understand now, and I wanna come."

"You better come. I would've dragged you along either way."

"I need to talk to her," she said. "I wanna come."

"There's no going back."

"You say that like I have a choice." She said it through a smirk. "Plus, I don't wanna go back." She sipped on her noodles. He could tell she was nervous. The fork in her hand was too steady. "I've never done anything like this before. Are you sure you're ready for this?" she said.

"Nope." He smiled.

"You nervous?"

"Terrified. You?"

"I'm pissin' my pants."

"Well then," He rubbed his hands together as his chair screeched across the tiled floor. "Let's get started."

* * *

_**R**_achel had to ask more than once for directions, but eventually after a long drive, she found herself at the Oak's mall. She pulled the truck up to the entrance. There they were. Just as he had promised. They were sitting on the bench. When they saw her, they jumped up and made their way to the pick up truck. Sam and Chris. She felt a surge of relief. She thought she had said goodbye that morning, but here they were. But something was out of place; she felt it the minute she pulled up. Now she realized what it was. She looked around as they reached the truck. The buses weren't there. The band was gone.

She jumped out of her seat and ran towards them. "You bastards." She embraced them both. "You bastards, how could you leave the buses?"

"We paid a few kids to call our name during roll call." Chris said. "Then a few more to keep quiet. They won't notice until they're at the airport." He walked up to the truck and patted the door. "Come on, hop in."

"What are we gonna do?"

"We're going to Arizona, of course." Cat said. "We're going together."


	7. Where Robbers Go After Hitting Up the Ba

**Chapter Seven  
**Where Robbers Go After Hitting Up the Bank  
(The First Flight across the Border)

_**C**_hris pulled a map out of his pocket, and spread it over the truck's hood. Cat pulled out the band itinerary from her purse. They had stocked up on food at the mall, mostly candy bars and chocolate, along with specific directions on how to get to the airport.

"Okay." Chris said, running his finger along the map. "We're gonna take the highway north, for at least another hour until we reach exit forty seven."

"The plane leaves at nine forty five." Cat read off the schedule. "That's if there are still seats available."

"We're not gonna make it in time." Rachel said.

"We just have to hurry up." Chris said. He rolled up the map. "Help me with the supplies. We'll make it if we leave now." Cat headed back to the bench and returned with a couple of plastic bags filled with junk food. Rachel pulled the seat forward, and Chris carefully placed the groceries in the back. When he saw Rachel's uniform curled up in a corner along with her piccolo, he couldn't help but smile.

"You brought it this morning, didn't you?" he said. He hopped into the driver's seat.

"I don't give up until the very end," she said. "You comfortable on the highway?"

"I have my license." He started the engine. "We don't have to worry about being pulled over."

"We won't make it in time if we get pulled over." Cat said. Chris pulled the car away from the mall's entrance. "So no speeding. Don't do anything crazy."

"If we don't speed we'll miss the plane," he said. He let out daring laugh. "As for crazy, I think it's too late for that."

They pulled out of the Oak's mall and took the first ramp onto the highway. They all sat in the front of the truck, with Cat in the middle. It was a tight fit, but the back seat was filled with food and Rachel's uniform.

"Where's all your stuff?" Rachel asked.

"We left our uniforms and bags on the bus." Cat said. "They'll be waiting when we get there."

"I can't believe you guys went through with this. I can't believe you left the bus."

"Me neither." Chris said. Cat nodded in agreement. She turned the radio up and rummaged through Rachel's disks, until she finally found what suited her. She turned it up to full and began singing. Rachel joined in. The stereo completely drowned out their voices, even though they were nearly shouting. Chris didn't recognize the song, but the sisters seemed to know every word. Glancing at them now, he realized how similar they really were. "We're gonna make it," he said. "It's gonna be all right."

Before he could finish the thought, a grating noise erupted from the rear. Chris pulled the truck over and they got out to inspect the damage. The tire had completely worn away. Rachel pulled the truck bed out and rolled out the spare. None of them had ever put on a spare tire before and they were puzzled and a little anxious. It took them a lot longer than expected to get started again. Only after several attempts did Chris manage to get the tire to stay in place. The girls sat on the bed, laughing at him the entire time. Only after he threatened to give them push-ups did they both offer to help. He held the tire as Cat and Rachel took turns tightening the bolts. The entire incident cost them over half an hour, but they were finally back on the road. They still had a long while to go, and the delay had killed any hope of them arriving on time. All they could hope for now was that the plane was somehow delayed.

After over an hour of driving, Chris finally reached the exit and they entered into the airport. All three of them felt their stomach sink as they followed the signs into the parking complex. Before Chris had time to stop completely, Rachel was already jumping out of the truck.

"What time is it?" She asked.

"Nine fifty." Cat said.

"We're five minutes late." Chris said. "We gotta run -"

The girls were already half way across the parking lot. Chris sprinted to join them. They raced to the desk, dodging various travelers as they went. Cat bumped into an unsuspecting couple, muttered a hurried apology and never looked back. When they reached the information desk, they begged the clerk to tell them at what gate the flight to Arizona was departing. They yelled a thank you over their shoulder as they ran to gate twenty-seven.

They arrived breathless and when they saw the plane, the little air left inside wasknocked out of them. It was drifting away. The bridge was slowly recoiling, as the gate doors slammed shut. Before they could even recover, the plane was rolling down the runway, and then in the air, sliding away beyond the airport's large windowpanes. They all stood limp and tired, three criminals reaching beyond glass, as the clouds enveloped the last visible dot of light, blinking in the fog.


	8. The Clown Who Jumped Through a Ring of F

**Chapter Eight  
**The Clown Who Jumped Through a Ring of Fire  
(While the Audience Blinked)

"What do we do now?" Chris said. "What can we do?" They all had sat down near the terminal and they dug their faces between their hands. The prospect of going back was on their minds, and all the punishment they would encounter upon their return. They were willing to endure it. They were happy to endure it. If only for a chance to perform. But they couldn't. Not anymore. The chance was gone, and all their sacrifice had turned up nothing but a long and disappointing ride back home and a lifetime of grounding. "I guess we would have to go back sooner or later." he said. "I just wished it was later."

"Like hell I'm going home." Rachel said. She got up and walked off as the other two rushed to catch up.

"Where are you going?" Cat called. Rachel didn't bother turning around.

They ended up chasing her through a throng of people, between metal detectors, over baggage, along queue lines, finally to the front desk. The girl behind the desk stared at them puzzled, chewing gum melting in her mouth, as they walked up and parked in front of her. Rachel asked for the next flight, and the girl took her time deciphering her monitor. Rachel turned to the others.

"We're not going home yet," she said

They made their way to the sofas lining the wall. The next plane for Arizona would leave later that night. They took advantage of their time to plan. They gathered all the information they had, emptied their wallet and purses, and pulled out the band itinerary. When they pieced it together, the situation looked bleak. Chris and Cat had used up most of their money buying supplies at the mall. Rachel was the only one with money. Before she left, she cashed in the extra from her band account, all the money she had fundraised for the trip. At least now, I have a use for those damned oranges, she thought. But it wasn't enough. They didn't have enough money to buy three round trip tickets. Either someone had to stay behind, or no one was coming back. Their only hope, their only plan, was to board a plane in the middle of the night, arrive in a city they didn't know, with no chance of going back, and wonder the city in search of the Jordan high school marching band.

"The band performs tomorrow morning." Cat said. She had the itinerary in her hand. "When we get there, we won't have time to find them."

"We're gonna have to meet them at the stadium." Rachel said. "The plane is supposed to arrive around ten thirty. When is our performance?"

"Eleven forty five." Cat responded.

"That's too tight." Chris said. "We'll be driving in a city we don't know and there's no telling how far away the stadium is from the airport."

"But there's a chance." Rachel said. "It might work." She leaned back on the couch, eyeing them both, waiting for an answer.

"What if it doesn't?" Chris said. "What if we're left stranded in Phoenix?" Rachel just shrugged her shoulders.

"Let's do it." She said. She searched for approval in their eyes and put her hands on the table. Cat was the first to respond.

"I'm for it." She put her hands on top of Rachel's. They both stared at Chris.

"You're both crazy," he said. He looked at them both, there was no doubt about it, they were sisters, so equally impulsive and so equally bold. The mouse and the lion. They had changed. Either that or he had never truly known them until now. He had changed too, he realized. Either that or he had never truly known himself, either. He could see himself clearly now. For the first time the windshield was clean. He had driven his whole life in the rain, but now he could finally see. The wipers were finally working and he wanted more. We wanted to change more, to be like Cat and Rachel, to be as brash and brave. He wished he was as brave as that small little mouse he saw so long ago. He shoved all his doubts aside, put his hand on the pile, and smiled.

"It's the least I owe you," he said.

The noise of the airport bustled around them. People passed dressed in business suit, carrying bags and briefcases. Tourists passed with flowered shirts. A girl complained to her mother about going back home. The three looked at each other, under the orchestra of typing clerks, hurried footsteps, and nonsense conversation. They squeezed each other's hand.

"You ready for this, Rachel?" he said.

"Whenever you are."

"You ready, Cat?" His voice could barely be heard over the noise. In the distance, an airplane climbed its first steps into the sky, moaning along the way. Cat looked up following the airplane's trail, and then looked down at their interlocked hands. She took a second to respond.

"My name's Samantha Askins." she said, tightening her grip on Rachel's hand. She looked at them both, lingering on each pair of eyes. Another airplane started to complain, lumbering forward on the runway. "Yeah, I'm ready."

They got up, bought their tickets, three one-way fares to Phoenix, and went back to the truck. They decided it would be best to wait at the airport until it was time. Chris reached behind the seat to grab the collection of candy bars they had bought from the mall, pushing Rachel's piccolo and uniform aside. While he fished through the plastic bags, the truck suddenly began to move. He bumped his head trying to turn around.

Rachel pulled out of the parking lot, ignoring his objections. All she said was that she was taking them somewhere special. Cat seemed to know what she was talking about, but the entire thing just gave Chris a sick feeling in his stomach. They drove for a couple of minutes, navigating the maze of the airport, until finally Rachel pulled the truck off the road. After a few more minutes driving over grass, the truck lumbered to a stop, a few feet from a fence. Beyond the fence, the airstrip ran straight to the horizon. They all looked straight down the wide path of the runway. The sun was dipping low, and melting onto the ground, leaving nothing but charging silhouettes in place of planes.

Rachel and Cat jumped out of the truck and leaped onto the hood. Chris followed, trying to get them to understand how ridiculous this all was. Before he could get a word in, a shadow swoop over his head and the roar of jet engines drowned his senses. The wind hit him like an unsuspecting wave. He couldn't help ducking in order to balance himself. Once on the ground, he didn't want to get up. He was certain that a single inch higher would leave him with tire marks on the top of his skull, not to mention one hell of a headache.

He crawled up onto the truck's hood, and lay down next to the girls. They seemed to be enjoying themselves. A cheer greeted each plane that rushed overhead, as they raised their arms above their heads, closed their eyes, and screamed in anticipation. They brought out the food from the back, and began to pour though the candy bars. Then began the difficult task of eating on their backs and screaming with their mouth full. Somehow, they managed to accomplish it. Whenever one would begin to cough for air, the other would pat their back, and then both would lie down again until the next emergency. So it was that every plane that they greeted each passing plane with a mouthful of chocolate, and a symphony of coughing.

Once the sun disappeared, the silhouettes faded into little pins of light. More than one plane caught them by surprise then, leaving them squealing in a combination of fright, excitement and joy. When the moon came out, they stared at it as the planes skimmed its surface. They could almost reach out and touch it, cup it in their hands, and put it in their pocket.

"Sam," Rachel said in between planes. "I'm sorry." She looked at the stars. "I'm sorry I was never there for you. For every time you felt like I abandoned you. I never wanted you to feel alone." Chocolate smeared her mouth, and the moon smeared her eyes.

"No." Cat said. "It all my fault. I finally understand." She turned on her side to face her sister. "It's just…when I hurt other people, it hurts me more. I wanted to hurt myself, Rachel. Oh God, I hated myself. I needed to punish myself. It's the only way I could live with myself. I had to suffer for what I did, you see?"

"Sam -." Rachel started.

"I needed you to hate me. You had to hate me for what I did. I tried to make you. But you made it so hard. I pushed harder and harder, but you…" Cat propped herself on one elbow, looking down at Rachel. The moon shined through her hair. "You never budged."

Rachel pointed to the night sky. "You see that, Sam?" Cat followed her finger, and nodded. "She's right there." Rachel said. "Don't blame yourself for what happened, she said. That's what she told me, and now I'm telling you. She's right up there, Sam, and she forgives you." Rachel reached over and brushed the hair hanging over Cat's face. "Don't blame yourself, Sam." She ran a finger down Cat's face. "If it's anybody's fault, it's the wagon's, and it's broken now." A smile blossomed on Cat's lips.

"Thanks to you." Cat said.

"No, thanks to the oranges. The same damn oranges that bought our tickets." Rachel saw a plane approaching in the distance, nothing but a collection of tiny specks, each time blinking closer and closer.

"Rachel." Cat said. "I -" Her voice was drowned out as the plane charged forward and took to the air, but the meaning of the words weren't. She grabbed her sister as the plane cut another scar into the sky, and hugged her. Chris jerked up, startled with the sound. He had fallen asleep from the chocolate. He smiled when he saw them both embracing.

"Should I leave you two alone?" he said. They turned around, still interlocked. They both inched toward him with a devious smile.

"Of course not." Cat said. "You're my brother now." Chris scooted backwards as they both showed no sign of stopping. They crawled closer and closer. Before he knew it, he was teetering at the edge of the truck's hood. One more inch and he would fall.

"And this is what we do to brothers." Rachel said. "Welcome to the family."

They grabbed him, pushed him off, and nearly died of laughter.

It started to rain, and they spent the rest of their time inside the truck, watching the rain beat down the windshield. When the time had finally come for their scheduled flight, Chris drove them back to the parking lot, following Rachel's directions. They quickly dragged Rachel's uniform and piccolo into the terminal. She had no other bags. She had no reason to pack that morning. When she noticed, Cat generously offered to share her clothes.

They walked to the gate with out a problem, and with out the rush they had earlier that morning. They passed the gate, walked the bridge and entered the plane. As they took their seats, they let out a sigh of relief. They had finally made it. They sat sandwiched among each other, their minds on one thing: they had a little more than an hour to get from the airport at Phoenix to the stadium, in a foreign city, with no private transportation.

"The real hell is gonna start when we land," Rachel said. "We're gonna need a miracle."

"Hey, we got this far, didn't we?" Cat said. She smiled. "Mother's put in a good word for us."

"We can only hope." Chris said. "Let's hope your mother doesn't run out of miracles."

On the plane, they talked during the entire trip. They talked about the band, about the performance tomorrow morning, and about their plans. They talked about looking back when they were old and worn, remembering the struggles that had brought them so close together. As the talked, time seemed to pass unnoticed, and before they knew it, they heard the sound of wheels screeching on pavement.


	9. And Then I Heard Her Play

**Chapter Nine  
**And Then I Heard Her Play  
(The Last Finale)

_**T**_hey quickly grabbed Rachel's uniform and piccolo, and hurried out the door. To their pleasant surprise, a line of taxis was waiting patiently outside the airport like lions stalking their prey. They ran to the closest car, without any thought as to the cost, or the fact that they had almost no money left. All that was on their mind was the little window of time they had to reach the stadium.

The driver opened the door, and they hopped in. They asked him if he knew where the Fiesta Bowl was taking place, and he said he had no idea. They told him to take them to the largest stadium in the city, and to go as fast as possible. He seemed to understand. They pulled out of the airport, turning corners a little too fast for comfort, but the nervous feeling in their stomachs urged them on.

"What time is it?" Chris said.

"Ten to Eleven." Cat said. She turned to the driver. "How long will it take to get there?"

"Forty five minutes without traffic," he yelled over his shoulder. He wasn't what Chris would picture a normal taxi driver to be. He was bald, and by the look of his clothes, he was colorblind. He wore a white and orange stripped shirt, with a crooked baseball cap covering only half of his head. The dice tugged on his rear view mirror, pulling and pushing with the motion of the car. He wondered what kind of person he was. They were going to have to depend on his sympathy. Chris wished he brought up the fact that they didn't have any money before they left the airport, but it was too late for that. And even if he did, the driver would only refuse to take them anywhere. He hated to admit it, but lying was the only way. And he would do what he had to do.

They drove for half an hour without problems. After the airport, they immediately pulled into the freeway. They took an exit leading to downtown Phoenix. The buildings were taller than the ones back at home. He had never seen anything like it. As they rolled down the exit, Chris caught a glimpse of it. The large complex, jutting out of the ground. That's where they were headed. He could finally see it. They were finally here.

Before he could alert the others, the car suddenly came to a halt. When they looked out the window, a long line of cars greeted them. The road was jammed, and traffic slowed to a complete stop. They had five minutes left.

"What are we gonna do?" Cat said. Anger was enveloping her voice. "We've come too far to be stopped by goddamn traffic."

"There's nothing we can do." Chris said.

She tapped her fingers rapidly on the window. "I'm jumping out of this car and running for the stadium."

"There's no use," he said. He ran his fingers through his hair. They caught in a tangle. He didn't flinch with the pain. His stomach felt sick. He realized this was the end of their joyous escapade. He didn't think it would end this soon. In truth, he wished it would never have to end. But here it was, the quick, abrupt, and powerless end. "We'll never make it by foot. By the time you get there, it'll be over." His eyes were getting itchy. He wiped his hands on the seat and rubbed them. It wouldn't stop. Cat buried her eyes in frustration. She hadn't given up. She really would run. Rachel hadn't said a word. She just stared out at the traffic, mesmerized. She looked as if she had just been broken in half.

Chris caught the driver's eyes looking at them through the rear view mirror. The eyes suddenly narrowed. "It's your lucky day it seems." he said. "You climbed onto the right taxi."

"What do you mean?" Chris said.

"I have a proposition." He adjusted the mirror to take a better look. His eyes landed directly on Chris. "I can get you there on time, under a few conditions." He smiled a crooked smile. "One: you tell me the minute you see a cop. Two: I want a little extra bonus added on the usual fare, and I need it upfront." The air outside sizzled under the humid sun, penetrated with the sound of a hundred car horns.

"Do it." Rachel said. She had ripped her eyes away from the window. "We'll pay you anything. Just do it."

"Now." the driver said. "I'm not gonna risk my ass just for good karma. I want it upfront. Five hundred dollars."

They had three minutes left. Time was ticking away. Chris pleaded with the driver, with no resolve, and Cat nervously rapped her fingers on the doorknob, bouncing her legs on the ball of her feet. Rachel stared at her. She was ready to run. The last attempt to get to the stadium. A futile effort. Rachel was sure that Cat realized it. But she was sure that Cat would do it anyway. They had two minutes left. Cat opened the door.

"Here." Rachel pulled her piccolo from under her arm. "This'll go for a thousand at least." She threw it at the driver and stared as he inspected it. "Drive," she said. It was the commanding voice Chris had remembered. The voice that had every flute dangling on her leash.

"What are you -" The sound of screeching tires cut off Cat's voice. The door she had opened slammed shut. All three fell back into their seats. The car took a quick right, and climbed onto the sidewalk. It took the nearest side road, and raced down the empty residential street. The tires screamed as they hugged the corners. The driver didn't bother with stop signs; they just became flashes of red as they went. The driver had done this before. Chris could tell he knew his way around the small streets. In a minute, they were coming up around the stadium through the back, over another sidewalk and a stretch of grass. They cut through the parking lot, dodging the parked cars and buses. The brakes screeched at the entrance, almost drowning out the announcer. Jordan high school was taking the field.

Cat stared in disbelief at Rachel. "You can't do this." Rachel pushed her out of the car, and shut the door. "We came all this way. You have to play. Get your piccolo back," she pleaded. Rachel just rushed her into the stadium never looking back. Cat fought back every step of the way. They heard a door shut. Cat gave one last push, strong enough to see the taxi heading across the parking lot. She forced herself free, and cupped her hands around her mouth. "Get back here, you goddamn bastard!" The car turned a corner, and its tires let out a finale screech. She let her hands fall to her sides. The piccolo was gone, along with the forgotten uniform. The crowed inside the stadium cheered. The announcer's voice rambled on the list of names, and a drum cadence broke out as the band took the field. Cat grabbed Rachel by the shoulder, shaking her with all her strength.

"How could you?" she screamed. "We did this for you. It was all for you." She wiped the tears from her eyes. Even over the pounding drums, Cat's voice was loud and clear. It seemed to echo under the stands. "There's still time." She was breathless. "You can use my flute. You take my place. Use my uniform." She sank her fingers into Rachel's shoulders. "It's my turn, Rachel. I'm gonna make it up to you. For all the times I've pushed you away. This is it. This is my apology. You sacrificed the trip for me. Now I want you to have it back."

"Sam, I can't." Rachel curled up in Cat's grip. Her voice was twice as soft, almost buried under the shuffling of the crowd. "I can't let you punish yourself like this."

"Stop kidding yourself." Cat yelled. Rachel jumped in her trembling hands. Her shoulders were already hurting. "I know, Rachel. I know. You were in the wagon, that goddamn wagon, and you couldn't steer it. I know why you were so quick to forgive me. You blamed yourself, didn't you?" Rachel crumbled into pieces. "She's up there, remember, Rachel? She told us not to blame ourselves."

Rachel opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was incomprehensible stuttering. Any sense the words could've carried was lost in thunderous applause.

"I won't let you punish yourself either, Rachel." Cat held Rachel's face in her hands and pulled it closer. "Listen to me. You're going out there, okay. You're gonna play that show and you're gonna be great. You're gonna do it for me. You're gonna -"

"Drum majors, are you ready?" The voice of the announcer broke in. They had less than a few seconds. Chris stared at the girls as the gashed each other's wounds, helpless and horror stricken. He lowered his head. He couldn't stand looking at them anymore. They were cutting each other open, gutting each other right in front of his eyes, while the clock slipped slowly away.

* * *

"You're her brother now." Rachel's voice pounded in his head. He shut his eyes tight, and rubbed them. His head wanted to explode. He finally knew what it meant. He finally understood what it was to be family. He held a clear memory of Rachel pacing the center of the flute circle, walking up and down her line. She stopped in front of him, and stared, checking his posture and instrument angle. She was nothing but her cold, calculated self. To his left and right the line of flutes stretched over the Jordan high school parking lot, and above the sun hammered mercilessly at their skin cells.

"Is this what brother means?" he said.

"Yes. Family means you get front row center," she said, adjusting his shoulders. She never blinked. "You get a free pass to all the deepest, darkest secretes."

"I didn't ask for this." He lowered his head, but she immediately pulled up on his chin, and lifted his piccolo into a perfect parallel with the ground.

"Of course you did." She said. "You stuck around. It's your prize for persistence."

"What the hell kinda prize is this?" he said. She made sure his heels and toes were touching, sliding them carefully together.

"Truth." she said. "And trust." She stopped fixing his posture and looked him in the eye for the first time. "And with it, responsibility." She pecked him on the cheek and moved on down the line without another word.

* * *

_**B**_efore Cat could continue, Chris pulled her off into the stadium. He pulled them both by the arm, and they broke into a near sprint. Rachel stumbled on her feet, and Cat almost tripped face down on the floor. A little off in the distance they could see the buses. The bus driver sat in his seat, eating a sandwich.

The crowed behind them erupted. The drum major salute was over, and they ran to their podiums. "The Jordan high school marching band may now take the field for competition." The announcement echoed through the speakers, and the crowd went silent. Their seconds were counted.

Chris pulled them to the bus, and pounded on the door. The driver reluctantly opened. Chris turned on the two girls. "Sam, your uniform is too small for Rachel. You're gonna go in there and find mine. You got less than two seconds to change. Find my piccolo." He pushed them both in before either could object, pulled the bus driver out of his seat, and got him to open the storage compartments. Chris went for the plumes and in a few seconds, the girls jumped out of the bus, zipping up their jackets. Chris hurriedly stuck the feathers in their hats, as they straightened each other's chords. Chris pushed them off towards the field.

"Run." he yelled, when they looked back. "Hurry up and run." They hesitated for a second, then turned around and sprinted for the field. He crossed his fingers. The drum major's hands went up, along with two hundred instruments ready to play.

"Run." Chris screamed. The girls rushed across the grass.

"Run." The drum major gave the first beat as they jumped over the fence.

"Run." The second beat as they hit the clay track.

"Run." Third. They busted through a gate.

"Run!" Fourth. They ran for the edge of the field.

"Run! Goddamn it! Run!"

The drum major's hands froze. Every thing stopped as two breathless girls burst onto the field. They quickly ran to their holes, and set their instruments up, ready to play. The crowd stared quiet, and the announcer for once had nothing to say. The girls didn't move a muscle. Neither of them even blinked. They simply waited for the drum major to count off again. Eventually he struck the downbeat, and the field erupted. The two sisters played as tears blurred their eyes.

Chris climbed up to the stands to watch the performance. He stood on the top bench, the pinnacle of the mountain, looking over his two sisters.

They were his pieces of truth. His flawed, passionate, imperfect sisters. He had learned the truth. He watched as they forced his eyes open, sat him at the center of their world, and played their list of miseries. He understood now the responsibility. He was their brother. He loved them for all their flaws, and as time flows and things pass, at least he'll always have that. This life was over. It was the fine chocolate melting in his mouth. The smell of Rachel's hair, her tears, Cat's amusing drool, it would all wash out in the laundry. But he would savor it while he had the chance. And when the time came, he would move on.

He watched the performance for the first time without himself in it. The notes painted pictures across his mind, tugging at memories, making new ones, filling out every crevice of longing, regret, pride, and love until it popped like a bubble and soaked into his brain; every ounce of sacrificed sweat returning home. He shuddered. The judges announced they were moving on to finals. The band filed on to a nearby baseball field, and split up into sections. Chris was happy to see the flutes gather around Rachel again. When everyone settled, she handed the section to him, asking him to say a few words. The lights above the baseball diamond poured through his eyelids, as he paced around the center and they all stared at him with expecting faces. He simply sat down amongst them, and said congratulations.

When the director voice shot through his megaphone, the flutes all stood up at attention. Chris found himself amongst a forest of legs, as he sat quietly on the ground, contemplating. The band gathered into a line, slowly shuffling past. When the circle had gone, only two others remained. Rachel sat crossed leg on the grass, watching her flutes walk away. Cat stood over her. The wind carried the mingled nonsense of the crowd.

"You have four years ahead of you." Rachel said. "You have no idea how much I envy you." She looked up at Cat, towering under the lights. She was nothing more than a silhouette. "You know, I've never seen our show in the stands how it's meant to be seen."

Cat looked at them. They were like the old, asking to die in peace, pulling the tube for a chance to relish in their memories. She bent down, and wrapped her arms around them. They pushed her toward anxious crowd, and she turned around reluctantly. After a few minutes, she disappeared into the night, just like the band before her.

"This really is the end for us, isn't it?" Rachel said. He nodded his head.

They both walked back to the field, and climbed the stands. She wanted to see the show from high up, so he took her to the last bench. The wind had picked up, and the night air burned cold. They huddled up for warmth, as they sat down. She was still wearing his uniform. When the band came onto the field, they moved closer, and squeezed each other's hands tighter. For some reason, they felt colder. But Rachel still took off the band jacket, and folded it carefully.

**The End**


	10. Author's Note

**Aurthor's Note  
**I Don't Really Need a Title  
(But This'll Do Just Fine)

Thanks to everyone who inspired the story, and those who gave comments on how to improve it (especially Darth Grampa, you know who you are). If anyone else has any comments or questions, please feel free to post them. I'd love to hear any suggestions or ideas. This story ain't good enough to have a dedication on the front, so I'll leave one on the back: dedicated to my marching band for the inspiration, my 11th grade englsh teacher for giving me a passion for writing, and my father for the encouragement. Also, I'd like to note that this story is owned by me, so obviously no stealing whatsoever. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it and found it worth your time. My only hope is that it might stick with you a few minutes after you close the final chapter.

So, until another time and another tale...

Flute boy


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